Poetry: Selections from Edward Lee

Able

Everyday is a mountain

to climb, beginning at the bottom,

failing to reach the top.

Day ends, night

gives breath to sleep,

until day returns

and the mountain remains

to be climbed

from the very bottom again,

the top never to be reached,

even if you forgo sleep

in an attempt to create a day

without an end.

 

The mountain is always there

and we must climb it

because it is there,

each day needing a beginning

as it must, eventually, have an end,

 

but sometimes,

some days,

I cannot face that mountain,

cannot face that endless climb,

cannot;

 

futility locks my bones

and blackens my mind,

the breaths in my lungs

hard to come,

and so I lie here

as I lie now,

not able for a day

of climbing,

 

not able.

Is This Love? 

 

In her years away from me

she learned to make

a red-coloured soup

from stones,

and yellow tea

from dying hay.

 

She offered me both

when she finally

let me find her,

knowing I wouldn't

drink such things.

 

But I surprised her,

drank the soup and tea down

with a smile on my face,

even asked for more

of both.

 

I was violently ill after,

blood in my stool,

teeth in my spit,

but it was all worth it,

seeing her face

as she realised

she had been wrong about me

across the years

neither of us

would get back.

How Many?

 

How many saviours

have been sent

since we crucified christ?

 

How many have refused

to reveal themselves,

knowing the bloodlust

that bends our bones

and twists our souls

when we are faced

with the possibility

of a salvation

we know, deep beneath ourselves,

we do not deserve?

 

How many more

will be sent

before we are left

to our self-made doom?

My Own

 

Though I could reach the switch

I waited for you

to flick it into being

with your long thin fingers

with their brightly painted nails,

bringing needed light

to my darkened days;

 

there is my trouble,

some of it, sometimes, waiting

for some one else

to make that first necessary move,

when the most important step

towards being well

must be my own

for it to last longer

than the patience

of whoever’s love

I have managed to hang

my hope upon.

We Lit a Candle

 

We lit a candle

for you, but

somewhere between

the striking of the match

and the flame

passing to the wick

you were gone,

and the candle was left

to burn out

alone.

Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales.  His play Wall was part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. His debut poetry collection Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge was published in 2010. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.